


The Body Slave

by ausmac



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 10:50:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11919351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausmac/pseuds/ausmac
Summary: Your new boy king will bow down and serve me, as will you all…..so said Gul'dan.





	The Body Slave

Gul’dan looked around the room with a sense of relaxed satisfaction.  It was exactly suited to his tastes, warm and luxurious without being decadent.  He need only raise a hand and a slave or servant would be there to attend to his needs.  He was secure, safe, and powerful in his palace on Argus.

Azeroth was ruined, its crust shattered by Sargeras' assault on its Titan core through the maelstrom.  The atmosphere was filled with clouds of dust that dropped a poisonous rain, its oceans murky and lifeless.  Most of the survivors had been brought to Argus as property for dispersal among the Legion.  Any that remained free had a limited lifespan on a world that was rapidly dying.

He glanced across at the wall opposite.  Perfectly cleaned and mounted skulls decorated it and he knew each one by the items hanging beneath them.  There was there was Sylvannas with her bow, and Genn Greymane and many others, including the various Champions.  They all had their place now, their empty eye sockets looking towards him, obedient in death as they never had been in life.  Trophies all, reminders of how useless it was to defy the Burning Legion.

He realised he was hungry and he gestured to a waiting servant.  “Send for my body slave.”

The servant bowed and backed away, leaving the room at a brisk trot.  It was one of the many minor demonics who served him in silent obedience.  It was speedy;  the body slave entered his quarters very shortly thereafter, sliding down to his knees and touching the floor with his forehead, the long fall of his braided golden hair touching the thick hide rug.

When he looked up, his blue eyes glanced at Guldan’s face before dropping away in respectful obeisance.  “You sent for my, my Lord?”

Gul’dan smiled and sighed in satisfaction.  The voice was soft, deferential, without a hint of defiance.  “I did.  I’m hungry.  Order my dinner, and join me for it.  I desire your company.”

The young man nodded and stood.  “The usual, my Lord?”

“Yes.  And bring cold ale, and a jar of Xorn.  I require pleasuring.”

The body slave bowed low and backed slowly out of the room.

 

The corridors were familiar to him but he still walked them with care and an eye for those around him or who he met along the way.  Lesser beings or those equal to himself he disregarded.  Lords of the legion of demons of power he deferred to, stepping aside and bowing if they were important enough.  Few of them paid him any attention.  He bore Gul’dan’s mark on his forehead and the felslate Torc of Ownership around his neck.  It was a constantly uncomfortable reminder of his state, the raw fel energies seeping into his skin like a slow poison.  Deliberately, of course.  Corruption, as always, was the Legion’s aim in all things.

The first thing that Anduin had lost upon his enslavement was his pride.  Dragged before Gul’dan after his capture in the ruins of Stormwind, Anduin had suffered through the humiliation and pain of being in the orc’s hands.  Beating were the least of it.  Gul’dan had laughed at his attempts to fight the chains, and bent towards him, hands twitching around his staff.  “Your father fought me, boy – until I reached out, crushed his heart and tore him to pieces.  I trod his remains into the dirt.  You, I’ll keep.  You will bend to me, and serve me, and call me Lord.”

How he’d fought the orc, cursed him, challenged him, made all those pious statements about never surrendering, about the power of the Light.  But he had surrendered, finally, in the face of lonely despair, and the Light was the second thing that Anduin lost.  The Torc took that away from him, to the point where he lost his faith.  There was no Light here, only shadows and the false, pale illumination of the Fel.  It revealed his failure, the failure of all the peoples of Azeroth.  The only thing left was survival, and the opportunity to kill Gul’dan someday.  For that, he needed to be patient and patience was something he’d learned had to be earned.

He made his way to the kitchens and collected Gul’dan’s preferred meal.  A plate of roast meat – that day it was a loin of force-fed Tauren , thick with fat and gravy, along with baked vegetables and bread.  The few Taurens who'd survived were bred for food, reduced to mindless cattle and kept in pens, fattened for the table.

He also gathered a jug of cold ale and the bottle of Xorn.  His hand shook a little as he held it and he stood still, forcing himself to be calm.  It was nothing, he told himself as his hand stilled, as the fingers gripped the bottle.  It was nothing worse than what had he'd done before, and a great deal less than what had happened to others.

He had a servant carry the trays back with him, and set the table for the meal, serving Gul’dan personally.  His first duty at each meal was to taste the food himself – not only for the purposes of protecting Gul'dan from poisoning, but because his Master would wish to see him to eat it.  It had been part of their early battles, being forced to consume the meat of Taurens taken during the battles.  His initial refusals had earned him terrible punishment and even when he had eventually unwillingly tried to swallow it, he'd vomited it back up immediately.  Gul'dan was persistent and determined and in the end he'd learned to just stop thinking about what he was swallowing.  Just a little, he'd told himself, it was already dead, he'd whispered.  No more than meat.  _But it was more than meat._ It was one of many ways the warlock taught him to accept the unacceptable, to become what he was - a possession.  A slave, with no choices, only obedience. 

The meat may as well have been tainted.  The result was a kind of poisoning, and its effects went deep.

He used the small silver serving fork to select a piece of the meat and put it into his mouth, chewing it slowly as required, in case of any longer acting poison.  He washed the fork clean and used it to feed Gul'dan the larger pieces until he was waved away.  Then he stood back, hands behind his back, as his master finished his meal.  He would pour drinks at Gul’dan’s silent instruction, and wipe clean his master’s face and hands with a warmed damp cloth.

Satiated at last, Gul’dan sprawled on his couch and Anduin collected the Xorn.  He set it on a small bedside table and set to work at undoing Gul’dan’s clothing without further instruction.  He knew what was required of him and he pushed the disgust into that place in his mind where he hid all the feelings he could not reveal.  Gul’dan’s clothing was more intricate and elaborate than it had been on Azeroth, made of layers of cloth and leather, decorated and gemmed as fitting for his station.  He pulled the outer robe open, then undid the thongs of his leggings and undershirt until his legs and abdomen were revealed.  He uncorked the bottle, poured the oil onto his hands and began to massage the orc from chest to thigh.

As he carried out this all-too-familiar chore, he remembered how it had been on that first day, and the days afterwards that had led him to this time and to his place…

 

He'd been dragged from the ruins of Stormwind Keep, barely alive, his clothing tattered and burned and stained with blood, his own and that of his dead defenders.  Anduin had expected death, had fought against it with all of his power, but had come to welcome the idea as he watched his city burn and his people die.

Gul'dan had been instrumental in obtaining Illidan's body for Sargeras, and the failure of the combined forces to defeat him and recover the encased body had been the beginning of the end.  Sargeras had reanimated Illidan and entered the body, gaining his power and ability to command demons on Azeroth, and as a tool for his own enormous powers.  Nothing had been able to stop the assault from then on and the Alliance and Horde had been overwhelmed by the numbers of demons pouring through the portal.

All their plans, their courage and determination, had been for nothing.  The world burned, its people died and Anduin's survival had only been due to Gul'dan's plans to keep him alive. 

He remembered standing in the orc's presence, held upright by demons as he was stripped naked and the Torc was fixed around his throat.  It cut him off from all his abilities, from the Light, from any chance of fighting back.  Physically he was weak and frail compared to the enormous beings at Gul'dan's command but he stood defiant nonetheless, refusing to kneel, refusing to obey.  They'd forced him to his knees and Gul'dan had branded him, and watched as, one after another, his human servants had used Anduin, until he lay broken and bleeding at the warlock's feet.

It had been a salutary lesson, the first of many of the weeks that followed.  Words meant nothing.  Pride meant event less.  Finally, when he could stand no more, he'd knelt, shaking and shattered, and kissed the hands of the creature who'd killed his father and ordered the deaths of everyone he knew.  Gul'dan had patted his head and tipped his chin up, wiping his wet cheeks with large, callused fingers.

The only thing he could seem to feel was shame.

"You belong to me know, little King.  You may die, if you really wish to.  But who knows what may happen if you live.  Think on it, and make your choices."

Death was the one thing he could elect to do, and he chose not to die.  Not yet, not then, not while there were other possibilities.  Not until he could find a way to clean the shame of that surrender from his soul, and make some decent reparation.

 

Gul’dan let his eyes close at the pleasure of his slave’s touch.  The smaller human hands warmed as he rubbed the special oil into Gul’dan’s body.  It was designed specifically for an orc, to relax and soothe his various parts; although most of his old disabilities had been cured by Kil’jaden, the stiffness that had plagued him for years was less easy to heal.  The oil, and his slave’s expert massage, was both pleasure and relief.  It had an added effect, when applied to his organ – it brought him erect, triggering an arousal that was difficult for him to achieve otherwise.  He’d often wondered at the fixation lesser races had for sexual activity but his recent experiences had shown him just how effective it could be to invigorate and refresh him.

His body slave had become proficient in that particular activity and he required no verbal orders.  Gul'dan simply spread his legs and gave a pleased growl as the slick hands moved down to his groin.  There was no hesitation and he opened one eye to watch as the young human bent to the task.  Small, slim but dextrous fingers slid under his balls, stroking them slowly, squeezing them in just the way that he liked and his chest heaved with pleasure.  After a few moments the hand slid to his organ and worked the oil over it, fingers wrapping around the big flesh, working up and down as it warmed and hardened and lifted.  And he continued that work until Gul’dan’s hands clenched, as he grabbed fistfuls of that hair and thrust himself forward into the small, clever, slick hands of his slave and came with a groan of release.

He was asleep not long afterwards, sprawled on his back, snoring.  Anduin left quietly and walked back to his rooms to draw a bath.  It was only as he was shedding his plain grey robe and stepping into the warm water that he realised he’d not thought once during his recent ministrations of cutting Gul’dan’s throat.

It was an idea that had often occurred to him since his capture and enslavement.  The image of doing that had been very appealing at the start.  Or stabbing the knife into his heart or through his eye or into his throat or cutting off that cock Anduin was required to service.  But lately thoughts of retribution had begun to fade and he hardly ever had them anymore.  It seemed a pointless exercise.  Gul’dan might die – assuming the Torc would even let him do that and knowing the orc’s methods he doubted it – but Anduin would die as well.  And death had become less appealing lately.  There were other things he might do with whatever remained of his life.

Like finding out if anyone he knew had survived and where they might be.

Dalaran had fallen in shattered ruins on the Broken Shore, killing almost everyone that had been in the city at the time.  Khadgar was missing, Sylvannas, Genn, so many others were dead.  Velen had been taken and was in Kil’jaeden’s hands, undoubtedly being corrupted and turned because that’s what the Deceiver would see as a fitting punishment.  He had no idea about Tyrannde’s fate, or Malfurion for that matter.  Sargeras had taken Illidan’s body and used it and its power as a tool to destroy Azeroth.  Whatever Demon Hunters had survived the battles had been taken and turned to his service.

A bath and a change of clothes improved his mood, and Anduin went to his small sitting room and gathered his notebooks and pen.  Since his capture he'd been teaching himself Demonic – most of the Legion didn’t care to speak to him in his own tongues and if he wished to be aware of what was happening around him, it was something he needed.  It had been slow going at first, since most demons weren’t inclined to teach anything but pain, until he'd found an unlikely helper. 

Said helper arrived a short time later, bounding through the door and jumping up onto his work table.  Anduin could never be sure what mood Mippin would be in; he was one of Gul'dan's imps and was naturally chaotic.  Unlike the others, he had a small amount of intelligence and a powerful curiosity about Anduin, so he frequently visited and, when in the right mood, was happy to explain things in Demonic.  Especially if Anduin bribed him with his favourite honey cakes.

That day he appeared to be a bit more excited than normal and Anduin drew on his limited Demonic to find out why.

"Why jumpy Mippin?"

The red imp leapt up and waved an arm.  "Cakes, Anduin!"  He had fairly narrow and linear thought processes and Anduin knew he'd get nothing from him until he was given a cake, so he uncovered the cake jar and handed him one.

"Now Mippin, what's happening?"

He started rambling in rapid Demonic which Anduin only caught a few familiar words, until one word jumped out at him.

Khadgar.

"Wait.  Stop.  What about Khadgar?"

The imp muttered, its mouth full of cake and its red eyes twinkling.  "Said we caught him.  The Khadgar man.  Master has him now."

He let the imp rant on as it ate its cake, eyes unfocused.  Khadgar was alive.  _Is alive.  At least for the moment._   Gul'dan had sought to capture the Archmage for a long time, and Anduin knew he'd want to twist and convert the Archmage.  It would be a significant achievement if he could turn Khadgar into a Felsworn Mage.  Khadgar would make a formidable servant for the warlock.  It would also be something of a personal coup, a successful outcome to a long battle between the two.

It was dangerous to pry into Gul'dan's business, but curiosity pushed him to take the risk.  He collected a jar of cool ale and a plate of the warlock's favourite delicacies, and made his way to Gul'dan's chambers.

It took a lot of control to show no reaction as he entered.  The room stank of blood and spent magic.  Khadgar, naked, his pale skin striped with blood, was roped between two poles set in the floor, his hands and legs spread wide.  An eredar demonic was lashing his back with a spiked whip, tearing off pieces of skin, the bright blood spraying out with each blow.  The man's screams were muffled by the ball gag in his mouth but it was obvious he was suffering greatly.  A dark druid stood to one side, likely put there by Gul'dan to keep Khadgar strong and well enough to survive the treatment.  His Master would keep Khadgar alive through whatever punishment he endured; Anduin knew that only too well.

He looked towards where Gul'dan lay sprawled on his couch.  The warlock had seen him enter and gestured for him to come forward, which he did, carefully moving around the splashes of blood on the floor.  Anduin slid to his knees and touched his forehead to the floor, gracefully laying the tray he carried beside him.

"Anduin, your timing is excellent.  And the refreshments are most suitable.  Present them to me."

Anduin turned and stayed on his hands and knees as another servant lifted the tray and put it on his back.  It was a deliberate humbling, done where Khadgar could see it, could see the ex-King of Stormwind reduced to furniture, an amusing toy for the orc who tortured him.  Anduin stayed perfectly still, expressionless, staring at the floor until the tray was lifted off and a tap on his rear signalled him to rise.  He stood beside Gul'dan's couch until the orc pointed down, indicating he should kneel, which he did.

Meanwhile Khadgar's introduction to Legion physical abuse continued.  As the demon paused in his whipping, the dark druid moved close to the Archmage and healed him, although the pain continued.  Anduin was very familiar with this particular method – Khadgar would be tortured to the limits of his endurance but would be kept alive, until he learned that there was no end to the cycle of anguish, but short of permitting him an escape into insanity.  He would always be left with a little hope.  Hope was the food of the spirit, without it he would will himself to death no matter how the druid treated his body.  He would then probably be put in the dark room, a simple cell deep underground with no light or sound where the only input would be a daily visit from Gul'dan with food and water.  In the end that visit would become the central point of his life, his only contact outside the darkness. 

The agents of the Legion were accomplished at twisting its prisoners.  Physical pain to break the body, mental pain to break the mind and soul, they were expert and experienced in both.  In time even the strongest individual buckled under their methods. 

It was difficult to tell the passage of time in Gul'dan's rooms; there were no clocks, the light was diffuse and no shadows moved across the floors or walls.  Anduin had learned to track time by his breathing and with nothing else to do he did so as Khadgar's muffled wavering cries and moans echoed and shivered in the air.  The gag was removed; he was almost mindless in his anguish and utterly unable to cast any spells.  He thought it went on for about an hour and at the end of it Khadgar had fouled himself and thrown up repeatedly until there would be nothing left inside him but the agony that undoubtedly filled his shaking, shuddering body.  But even so, when the demon broke the bones in his hands and feet, he found breath and voice for the agony.

Anduin wondered why he felt so little pity for the man.  He should; Khadgar had been something of a friend, an advisor, who had known his father from the time of his childhood.  He thought he'd grown so used to it, to the encompassing misery he existed in, that someone else's pain simply didn’t reach him.  It all seemed distant as if there was a wall between what he was seeing and sensing and what he should be feeling.  Or perhaps an armour, an invisible shell separating his heart from the outside world. 

So he almost missed the moments when the treatment ended.  He glanced up as Khadgar was untied and allowed to fall, moaning, to the floor.  A demon handed Khadgar's staff to Gul'dan and he looked at it for a few moments, hands running up the ancient wood.  His voice was mild, almost gentle.

"When you can kneel, and bend yourself to me and call me Master as Anduin does, and mean it, the pain will cease.  You pay with your pain for staying as you are, and it’s a useless denial.  Everything," he said, gripping the staff in both hands, "can be broken."  And then he snapped the staff across his knees, shattering it.  Arcane fire sparked and died as Atiesh fell shattered to the floor.  He stood, toeing the pieces aside.  "Take him to the dark room."

 _There, I was right._   Gul'dan's predictability provided Anduin with some small satisfaction. 

Time passed.  It was perhaps weeks later when he saw Khadgar again.  He was barely recognisable.  Emaciated, pale, dressed in a grey robe, the Torc of Ownership hung around his neck and the brand on his forehead was red raw, obviously newly made.  He was walking the corridors with a pack on his back and Anduin knew it was filled with rocks which he had to carry from a room at one end of the long corridor to another room at the far end.  Then he would be given other things in the pack, equally heavy, and send back to the first room.  He would do that for hours, until he collapsed from exhaustion, only to be prodded and kicked and forced to his feet and sent off again.

Anduin watched him for a time, tempted to speak, knowing he couldn’t.  Khadgar hadn’t figured it out yet.  He hadn’t realised, or refused to accept, that he needed to beg.  If he wanted to rest, wanted water or food, all he had to do was go to his knees and stay there, despite the kicks and hits, and put his face to the floor.  And beg.  If his guards liked his behaviour, if they thought he deserved it, that would allow him to rest, they'd give him enough water and food to keep going.  But it wouldn’t always work, sometimes if you tried that too often, they'd just whip you to get you moving.  The thing was to accept it, to stop fighting, to bend.  He needed to find the numb place inside himself and bind himself to it.  It was a hard place to find.  There were a lot of steps to take down that long corridor between the dark room and the pain before you got to it.

He turned away and left Khadgar to his walking.  He was a clever man.  He would work it out, in time.  _Probably quicker than I did.  I was really stupid.  I thought it was a test.  It wasn’t, it was a lesson._

Gul'dan sometimes entertained visitors, powerful Legion lords from other parts of Argus.  Not Sargeras of course, or Kil'jaeden – if he wanted to see them, he went to them, they didn’t come to him.  Although he wasn’t sure anyone but Kil'jaeden and one or two Lords actually saw the Master of the Burning Legion in person.  His occasional Avatar was daunting enough. 

When such gatherings took place it was Anduin's duty to prepare the food and drink and to ensure that the room was set up correctly.  It wasn’t something he'd had previous experience with but he was a fast learner and Gul'dan made sure to painfully correct any errors he made.  He was informed that a dozen of Gul'dan's cronies would be coming for dinner one night and was given a day to prepare.  His only duty was the consumables and the setting, Gul'dan would provide the entertainment.  His idea of entertainment was generally something that made Anduin glad he wasn’t required to eat beyond his duties as food taster.

Anduin had settled beside Gul'dan, on his knees on a silken cushion in readiness to feed him when the big metal double doors of the dining hall were swung open and the night's main entertainment was brought in.

Khadgar was naked except for a black loincloth.  His pale skin was criss-crossed by scars and bruises, some older and some still weeping blood.  His hair was longer and hung lankly over his shoulders and he was thin, almost skeletal.  Still he managed to walk, stumbling only when the demons carrying ropes attached to his Torc shoved him forward.  He was pulled in front of Gul'dan; the demons dropped the ropes to the ground and stepped back towards the door, leaving the man standing alone in the middle of the cleared space.

Anduin knew that Khadgar had been in the dark room for a long time.  For a long time Gul'dan's had been the only face he'd seen, had been his lifeline to sanity.  Anduin understood that only too well.  But he had no time to consider Khadgar or his state of mind, because his Master had pointed to a familiar ceramic bottle on the table beside him, and Anduin bowed again and collected it, turning to face Gul'dan.

This, too, was part of the entertainment, a lesson for Khadgar as much as anything, to show the realms of service into which a servant of Gul'dan must journey.  Anduin slid between the orc's parted legs and untied his leggings, revealing his genitals.  He was not required to massage that night, but to arouse, and he warmed the oil in his palms before applying it to Gul'dan's groin.  He pushed the ever-present sense of humiliation to the back of his mind and centred himself on being what he must be at that moment – patient, spiritually still, centred in the quiet place in his mind that sat like an oasis of calm amidst the other more pressing emotions.  As he did, his hands carried on their familiar work, the fingers of one hand stroking under and around the big balls while the other hand wrapped around Gul'dan's cock, rubbing and squeezing it in a regular up-and-down motion.

He knew his Master's specific requirement when a large hand grabbed his braid at the base and pulled his head down.  His lips opened and he took in the bulbous head, tasting the faintly bitter oil and the sweaty slick of orc sweat.  This service he'd not been permitted to do for a long time, not until Gul'dan was certain of Anduin's complete submission.  Since the first time when he'd choked and vomited, Anduin had become adept at the act, had learned the way of it, to control his gag reflex, to stretch his neck and fight his instinct to bite when the big cock struck the back of his throat.  He barely even winced anymore.

A part of his mind not concentrating on his duties wondered what Khadgar was thinking at that moment.  Shock possibly, if he wasn’t beyond being shocked.  Disgust, anger, hatred, all the dark emotions that the Legion sought to engender in those it wished to corrupt.  Anduin stopped worrying about Khadgar as he sensed Gul'dan's orgasm approaching.  He edged back a little and took the flow of semen into his mouth, swallowing it to stop from choking.  The strangest part of it was that the taste of the warlock's come was one of the least unpleasant things he'd been required to consume during his capture.

He pulled back, letting the softening flesh slide from his mouth.  A bowl and cloth sat on the table and he collected it, wiping Gul'dan's genitals clean and washing his own hands and face.  He looked up and Gul'dan nodded, obviously pleased. Anduin settled back onto his knees facing forward, hands resting on his thighs, finally focusing on Khadgar.  But rather than watching him, the man was looking at Gul'dan and the look on his face was an odd one.  It wasn’t disgust or fear or even hatred.

It was yearning.


End file.
